


Whumpmas in July 2020 Drabbles

by sableflynn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Captivity, Gen, Injury, Knives, Magic Healing, Mind Control, Mind Games, Minor Character Death, Poison, Whump, Whumpmas in July
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25165933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sableflynn/pseuds/sableflynn
Summary: Just the things I've written for Whumpmas in July on tumblr! Trying to really limit myself to keeping these very short single scenes so I don't get overwhelmed.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Love

“You know, I’ve never really been in love,” Volkan says. He paces in front of her under the dim light. “Sure, I’ve had relationships, but…never met anyone that really _clicked,_ you know?”

“Forgive me if I don’t shed a tear for you,” Felicia replies. Her shoulders ache from the strain of the position he’s hung her in, blood dripping down her arm from the one cut he’s made. At her words, he chuckles, brings the knife up to rest against her collar bone. Watches her face for her reaction. She refuses to give any.

“I suppose it’s for the best.” He applies the lightest pressure, and her skin splits under the knife. She hisses a breath in through her teeth. “I never could’ve done all the things I’ve done if I had to worry about romancing and catering to some needy socialite. I was never really one to settle.”

He lifts his knife away and traces a finger along the line of red following her collar bone. Then he digs fingers in harder, and she can feel the magic inside her rising up, against her will. He draws it from her and the skin begins to mend, healing itself in a bright stripe of fire that burns deep within her. Then it’s done, and he presses his lips to the smooth skin where the cut was a heartbeat before.

“What about you, Felicia?” he asks, and it takes her a moment to realize what he’s talking about. “Have you found love?”

Images flash through her mind—dark curls, deep brown eyes she could lose herself in with a warm voice that brings her back, whispered _I love you_ s late at night—and Felicia forces them back down. She can’t even think of _her_ right now, can’t even allow her name to cross her mind. If Volkan doesn’t know _she_ exists, then she’ll stay safe.

So Felicia forces herself to look him in the eye and say “No.”

He tilts his head a moment, as if considering, then shrugs. “You’re young,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll find someone.” And then he presses the knife against her skin again and draws another thin line down her body. 


	2. Choice

“Choose one,” Volkan says, “and I’ll have the other.”

Felicia studies the two glasses set before her. Long stems, clear crystal, and identical amber liquid. Another one of his pretentious attempts at screwing with her mind. She tries to convince herself it isn’t working.

“What are they?” She asks.

“ _Choose,_ ” he says again.

She knows neither of them will kill her. When he decides to kill her, he’ll want something more hands-on than poison.

That doesn’t mean it’ll be _fun,_ though.

It’s arbitrary. She has nothing to base her decision on. Is it really a _choice_ when she’s essentially just flipping a coin? Watching his face for any flicker of reaction, any betrayal of the truth, she reaches out and takes the left goblet.

His face keeps its lazy smile as he takes the other goblet. “Cheers,” he says, before emptying his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. She drains her own glass, the liquid burning down her throat. And she waits to see what choice she has made.


	3. "Do it."

“Do it,” the man spits out. “Just get it fucking over with.”

Amalia holds the knife at his throat, her hand steady. She resists the urge to glance back at Mr. Davids, watching her from against the wall. This is between her and this man she has to kill. 

“Fucking _do it,_ ” he snarls. 

She tries to look past his bravado and defiance, for that hint of fear everyone shows when they’re in this room— _there._ Even as he glares at her, she sees the doubt in his eyes, the way his gaze flicks between her face, the arm holding the knife, and the man watching from the back of the room.

“I don’t know what you’re fucking waiting fo—” His words end with a wet gurgle as she jerks the knife against his throat and he chokes on his own blood. Her hands, still steady, are coated with the blood. There’s so much of it. She bites her lip to avoid gagging at the smell, and looks once more into his now-lifeless eyes before finally turning back to face Mr. Davids. 

“You hesitated,” he says. 

“I…” She swallows down the _I’m sorry_. _Useless words,_ he would say. “I’ll do better next time.”

“You will,” he agrees, his face still impassive. “Let’s get this cleaned up.” 


	4. Storm

The clouds roll in quickly, bright sunshine replacing pouring rain faster than she can process. The air cools as the oppressive humidity of the day finally breaks, and in the distance, thunder rumbles. A perfect summer storm. 

Elyse welcomes it, tilting her head up slightly to allow the rain to kiss her face. She should head back to the house soon, she knows, but she can’t help but take this moment of peace. A space to catch her breath and let the summer rains wash over her. 

She hears the splash of a footstep in a puddle, and opens her eyes to see Felicia making her way down the path towards her. Elyse extends out a hand in invitation, an open palm for Felicia to take if she so chooses. It has to be her choice. 

Felicia does take it, and the two stand hand-in-hand for a silent moment. Elyse glances sideways at Felicia, watching the rain run rivulets down her freckled face, her hair clinging to her neck in damp clumps. Felicia glances over and catches her eye, and her mouth quirks into a smile. 

“I just...I love the smell of a summer rain,” she says, inhaling deeply. She presses closer to Elyse, who squeezes her hand and lets the comment sit for a moment. Sensing that there’s something more Felicia wants to say. 

After another heartbeat, Felicia speaks again, her voice softer this time. “He locked me outside overnight during a storm like this, once.” 

Elyse manages to contain her wince at Felicia’s casual admission, yet another horror her love was forced to experience while she stood by and did nothing. _There was nothing I_ could _do,_ she tells herself, but she can never fully make herself believe it. 

She instead says, “Do you...want to talk about it?” It’s difficult for Elyse, finding this balance. Giving Felicia the space to talk about the things she went through, without forcing her to relive painful memories before she’s ready. 

Felicia stops walking for a minute, taking both of Elyse’s hands in her own. “No, I’m okay, actually,” she says, her voice slowly strengthening as she thinks it over. “I can just...enjoy this rain here, now.” Elyse can’t help but notice the raindrops gathered on her eyelashes, misting stray strands of hair. 

“It’s different now,” Felicia says. “I can go back inside whenever I want.” She winds her fingers through Elyse’s and draws her close, and Elyse tilts her head into the gentle kiss, the pair embracing warmly in the summer storm. 


	5. Quiet

“ _Quiet,_ ” she hisses, trying to keep her voice even and calm. “I can fix this, you just—just stay quiet, ok?”

“It hurts, it—” His voice breaks off in a sob. It’s soft, but she still worries the sound will carry through the woods. She resists the urge to clamp her hand down over his mouth, knowing that will just agitate him further. 

Instead, she turns her attention to the gore of his injured leg. The stake embedded in his calf doesn’t seem to have hit any major arteries, but it was sharpened at one end, and that scares her more than the injury itself. If they’re still running into traps like this, then they haven’t gotten nearly as far as she’d hoped, and they’re still in danger. 

A twig snaps somewhere behind her, and she scans the woods around her, heart hammering. They’re making too much noise, and she has no idea where they are but _they_ could be coming any moment and she needs to keep them moving. 

“ _Please,_ ” he whispers, his voice ragged, and her expression softens. They can’t keep moving until she fixes this. She needs to focus.

“I’m gonna…” Her hands hover over the wound, hesitant, and then she opens up the med kit. There’s wrap bandages, and some sort of disinfectant. It’ll have to do until they reach the checkpoint.

“Listen, we—you can’t walk with it in, I’m gonna have to take it out, and it’s gonna hurt and I’m so sorry, we just—” She’s rambling, and her voice is rising in panic, and she stops herself before she can spiral too far. 

His breath hitches again, and she scrambles around in the dirt next to them until she finds a solid stick—small enough for him to bite down on, but sturdy enough that it won’t snap. She holds it out to him, and his eyes widen in dread.

“I know,” she says as he takes the stick and holds it in his mouth. “I’m just gonna do this really quick, and then we’re gonna keep moving, ok? We’re gonna get out of here.” She swallows and places her hands on the stake. He bites down on the stick. She begins to work the stake out, and he tries not to scream. 


	6. "Breathe."

“Breathe,” Volkan commands, and Marcus lets out the breath he had been holding. There’s no gasp or sudden desperate intake; he just continues breathing as if he had never stopped.

Felicia’s grip on her fork is tight as she watches the scene play out, like some sort of fucked-up dinner show. They haven’t even gotten to the main event yet—no, that’ll be later, when they take her and Marcus downstairs and hurt them and make him hurt her and make her heal them both and pretend it’s all in service of some sort of greater good and not just their own twisted desires—no, first they just need some light entertainment to go with their filet and red wine. 

“Stop breathing, Marcus,” Volkan says again, and Marcus goes still. 

Their current guest ( _Carter_ , he works in the fucking _mayor’s office_ , she has to remember) watches with growing curiosity as Marcus continues to sit perfectly still, chest unmoving. “Do you think he’d pass out, rather than disobey?” he asks, his tone mild, as if discussing the weather.

“I’m sure he would,” Volkan replies easily, sipping his wine. “The question is, would he start breathing again once he was unconscious? Breathe, Marcus,” he adds, noting Marcus’s increasingly red face. Marcus once again continues to breath, and Felicia feels like she can breathe again, too.

“Stop breathing, Marcus.” Silence for a moment as Marcus once again stops breathing, and then Volkan continues. “We can test that later, if you’d like. I’d rather not make a mess at the dinner table.” He watches Marcus with an amused smile. “I’m sure you’ll love seeing just what _both_ of them can do for you,” he says, his gaze shifting to lock eyes with Felicia.

She can’t do it—she doesn’t have anything in her tonight, and so her gaze drops to the plate in front of her, not really seeing it. Her food is untouched before her. She hears Volkan telling Marcus to _breathe_ again, and she forces herself to continue breathing as well. 


	7. Tears

Amalia curls up in the corner of the stairwell, her arms wrapped around her legs, tears running down her face. 

_Stop crying. It’s not like this is the first time you’ve done this. It’s fine._ She stares at her hands, and they’re clean now, but she can still see the blood coating them like a ghostly vision. She rubs them together, harder and harder, like if she can strip away a layer of skin then she could strip away all these _feelings._

The stairwell door opens behind her with a creak, but she doesn’t turn to look yet. She knows it’s Mr. Davids, and she can’t let him see her crying. She scrubs at her face with one hand, but she can’t stop the stupid tears.

“Amalia,” Mr. Davids says, and she jerks slightly at the feel of his hand warm on her shoulder. “Why are you crying?”

The sound of a man’s desperate final chokes, the sight of blood pouring red from his slashed throat, the weight of the knife in her hand. _I’ve done this before. It doesn’t matter._ “It’s nothing,” she says, her voice shaky.

“It’s not _nothing._ ” Mr. Davids’s tone is firm but not unkind as he turns her around to face him. She lets her head hang, still not ready to look directly at him. “Tell me why you’re crying.”

“I just…” Again she looks at her hands, and wonders if she’ll ever be able to look at them again without seeing blood. “It’s still so…” _Scary,_ she wants to say, but that sounds so childish. She swallows. “I don’t know if I can ever be good enough.”

She can’t look at him. If he’s disappointed in her right now she doesn’t know what she’ll do, she’ll probably just die, she just can’t be a disappointment to the only person left who sees any sort of value in her. 

He tilts her head up to face him, and in his eyes she’s sure she sees warmth, and love. “Amalia, you did such a good job today.” He pulls her into a gentle hug. “You _are_ good.” She buries herself into the warmth of the embrace, almost enough to smother the memory of the man she killed. Her tears dampen Mr. Davids’s crisp clean shirt. 


	8. "I'm fine."

Rosa burst into the small holding cell, the last one at the end of a long row. _She has to be in here. She can’t already be gone_ —there. In the corner of the cell, Gia was curled into herself, a motionless shape dark against the bare walls.

“Gia!” Rosa cried out, and Gia lifted her head and unfolded herself, and _oh._ Every inch of visible skin was mottled and bruised, and her clothes were bloody rags, and she looked like she could barely hold her head up. _It’s been two hours. What did they do to you?_

Approaching slowly, as if worried she would spook, Rosa knelt next to Gia and began to gently check over her injuries. Her hands hovered over Gia’s body, unsure of where she could touch without making it hurt worse.

Gia blinked up at her with bleary concern and traced one hand along the blood staining Rosa’s shirt. “Are you ok?” 

Rosa couldn’t help but bark out a nervous laugh at the absurdity of the question. “Am _I_ ok?” She briefly glanced down at the splashes of blood covering her clothes. _Not even my blood._ “I’m fine, but _you_ —oh god, I’m so sorry we couldn’t get here sooner.”

Seemingly satisfied with the answer, Gia let her hand drop. “You’re here,” she murmured, her eyes already drifting shut. “I’m fine.” 


	9. "Please."

"Please don't hurt him tonight." 

Felicia's voice is soft, but Volkan pauses from brushing her hair and gently tilts her chin up to look her in the eye. 

"What did you say?" he asks, eyes shining with genuine curiosity. 

"I said, _please,_ " she repeats, "don't hurt him tonight." Her gaze shifts from Volkan's face to Marcus, sitting at the other end of the room and waiting his turn to get ready for the night. Everything about him is dull and utterly uninterested in the conversation taking place before him. As if it doesn't matter at all. 

_It matters. It has to matter._ The only way it doesn't matter is if there's nothing of Marcus left in there, and she refuses to accept that.

Volkan is still watching her. "Why shouldn't we hurt him tonight?" he asks, conversational.

Images flash in her mind of Marcus at the end of last night’s activities, nearly insensate with pain as she tried to piece him back together. The guests had been particularly fascinated with him. They pushed him to the brink again and again, marveling at how he still followed their every command without hesitation, how they could tell him to _be quiet_ and he wouldn't make a sound even as their tortures grew more and more elaborate and deadly. 

She hadn't been sure she _could_ bring him back from that. But she did. 

She blinks and pushes the image from her mind.

"He's been through too much. He needs time to recover," she says finally, forcing herself to look back at Volkan once again. 

He tilts his head, the ghost of a smirk on his face. "Then what should we do instead?" When she says nothing, gaze downward, he lifts his hand and runs a thumb lightly along her cheek. "Since you seem dead set on taking away our entertainment tonight." 

"Hurt me instead." Her voice is a whisper as she forces the words out. 

His hand on the side of her face grips her a touch tighter. "Hurt you instead, _what?_ " he asks, and she wants nothing more than to see his perfect facade of smug self-assurance crumble to dust.

But she can't. Not yet. 

"Hurt me instead, _please._ " With that last word she looks again into his eyes, her own blazing. 

His expression crinkles with a genuine smile. "Such sweet begging," he says. "You might even be able to convince our guests with that." 


End file.
